


Hands Full Of Sugar

by hellhoundsprey



Series: fullofsugar!verse [6]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Consensual Underage Sex, Crossdressing, Genderfluid Character, Light Bondage, Lolita Jared, M/M, Nipple Play, Older Jensen, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Roleplay, Spanking, Teacher Jensen, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 17:18:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7766557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Friday. Good girls (and boys) do their homework before heading into the weekend. Jared, certainly, <i>is</i> good.<br/>(Caution: NSFW banner picture.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands Full Of Sugar

 

 

Mr. Ackles likes to be told what to do.

That’s funny, somehow. He’s a big guy, always focused, always in control. Even the bullies at school give up rather fast once Mr. Ackles has put them in their place.

So, this is something special. Jared tries not to let it go to his head.

“Take off your shirt, please.”

Even though his face is flushed with something like hesitation, with doubt, Mr. Ackles does as he is told. Slowly. As if Jared would change his mind after button three, four, five.

Jared helps him push away fabric until there is nothing but skin to brush his wondering hands over. Mr. Ackles’ chest flutters underneath him. Jared is straddling his lap. It’s a gray day outside, but Mr. Ackles’ living room is filled with Journey and warmth.

Jared could take this sight in forever, could repeat endless times, “You’re so beautiful,” wishes Mr. Ackles would never stop cringing under the praise, squirming so neatly under Jared’s ass.

Shy smile, falling lashes. “Thanks.“

Mr. Ackles is peppered with freckles and Jared has always been a fan of those connect the dots pictures.

“Uhn.” A soft, loving sound. Mr. Ackles’ chest is falling deeper, away from Jared’s tongue, but it’s not an escape. The cushions rustle because Mr. Ackles is sinking down. Relaxing. Offering himself to Jared. Jared keeps his eyes open and on the tremble of Mr. Ackles’ bottom lip.

Mr. Ackles‘ hands lie by his sides, one dangling over the edge of the sofa and yet tense, maybe ready to stop Jared with a touch to his leg (Mr. Ackles would never _push_ Jared away). Mr. Ackles is as much of a good man as he is sensitive.

Jared’s tongue curls over and around a nipple (like this, see, one day I want it like this) and Mr. Ackles seizes before or while he gasps, forces his breath away to lower his chest. Jared follows though and when Mr. Ackles eventually has to inhale, it’s so easy to suck down on the entire thing. Mr. Ackles makes something like a hissing sound and Jared watches with his heart in his ears. Mr. Ackles’ nipple perks up between his lips, under his tongue.

The hand _does_ come then. Rather than pushing away though, it’s pulling Jared in – side of Jared’s thigh, pushing up under the frilly thing of a skirt; but not _too_ high, because Mr. Ackles is well-mannered like that.

“Jared.” Not kitten, not baby, but purred just like them.

Mr. Ackles lets him play to his heart’s content (a lot) until Jared gets too overboard with his teeth. He tilts his head then to suck along a rib, renew what was once purple and now has begun to fade into yellow-green. Mr. Ackles murmurs that it tickles but Jared can feel that grown-up dick flinching through his jeans.

Jared stretches out over his love some more, deeper, wider. Flat and folded and no, you’re not heavy at all, kitten. Mr. Ackles is squirming by now and Jared can’t keep still either; always moving, kissing, feeling. Mr. Ackles’ hands are on both of his hips now but do not stop them from hitching every now and then. Let Jared’s dick hump his own.

Jared is wearing the cotton little whites with daisies on them today and he will get off to the image of Mr. Ackles unfolding them before adding them to the laundry machine, noticing the (then maybe still damp) spot on the front.

~

Mr. Ackles got him a choker necklace that says “babygirl”. Jared finds it on the vanity, on top of the meshy-frilly lavender and pale pink underwear set from a few weeks ago; white barely over the knee socks, also mesh. A hasty note (Jared could identify the ink and handwriting everywhere):

_Only this. Downstairs._

There are enough frills to cover most of Jared’s erection but it’s still so lewd that he can barely believe Mr. Ackles thought this through. Fingers playing with the new collar, he contemplates bringing maybe a little dress, too. His reflection’s cheeks are flushed. God, he fits into this room so much. So pink ( _everywhere_ ).

But downstairs. Okay.

Jared kind of wants to bound back into his room when Mr. Ackles is sitting on the sofa with maybe just as pink cheeks as him and is wearing nothing but his boxer briefs, too. But Jared is weak and Mr. Ackles looks so lonely over there, all by himself.

Mr. Ackles is easy to climb on and his mouth is wet-warm, dripping (maybe for Jared) and he hums through the first slides of tongues. Jared shudders because Mr. Ackles’ arms drape around him, pull him closer, chest to chest. Hands hold him by his shoulder blades and Jared has to put his hands on Mr. Ackles’ chest to be able to keep up the kissing. A tiny tug o‘ war. Jared’s head is spinning.

Fingertips eventually tickle down his spine. All slow, all bird-gentle. Jared is so so aroused, so hard everywhere he can, and he sighs and lets Mr. Ackles feel his goosebumps. Mr. Ackles noses along his cheek, temple. Jared cranes his neck for more and gets it, too. He whimpers faintly at a brush of nose behind his ear, lips across his pulse point.

It’s been more than two weeks – exam time. Jared hadn’t spent a single hour without thinking at least once about Mr. Ackles, but maybe Mr. Ackles has missed him just as much.

Jared’s fingers pluck on Mr. Ackles tits and he gets a groan for it, whimpers for the neck kisses that follow, the tip-curled lick just above his collar, and he pinches harder until Mr. Ackles is bucking underneath him. Jared grinds right back.

By now, Mr. Ackles’ hands are skimming over the hem of Jared’s panties. The irritation is thigh-twitch evoking. Jared breathes, “Sir,” and rolls his hips, curls his toes where his shins are pressing down on Mr. Ackles’ thighs, and then again, “ _Sir_.” Gut-punched. Love-wrecked.

It all turns into _oh gods_ when he gets his bra undone, gets the straps shoved off his bony shoulders just enough for the flimsy thing to fall between their chests. Maybe Mr. Ackles doesn’t mind that Jared’s hands go from his nipples to up into his hair because he is rucking Jared up anyway (so light, you gotta eat more), hands a wide press on Jared’s shoulders and mouth hungry and so so wet on Jared’s tit.

Jared gasps and tries to hold on, to hold still, to just let Mr. Ackles do his thing. Patience, grasshopper. But Mr. Ackles’ beard is so rough, lips so soft where they suck him even pinker, and Jared moves and slithers like one giant, starving snake. His dick is slicking Mr. Ackles’ belly through the panties. Jared can feel Mr. Ackles’ treasure trail bristling over his cockhead on every stroke up, and it’s mind-wrecking, breath-taking.

“Sir,” he begs again.

Mr. Ackles is rubbing his dick against where it’s wedged between Jared’s ass cheeks, digs it into Jared’s taint maybe without knowing, up against the back of Jared’s balls.

“I… not gonna… I’m…”

If Mr. Ackles has heard him, it’s his answer to hold Jared even tighter with the one and to bring his other hand up front to fondle the nipple he hasn’t got his mouth sucked down on, and Jared shudders and clamps down all around him and _comes_. Comes pressed so close to Mr. Ackles, from riding his lap and getting his tits played with, shoots through panties and maybe into that belly button and oh god, _oh god_ , nothing has ever been quite like this.

Once Jared has to push away from that mouth still clinging to his chest, Mr. Ackles looks done for, licks his fattened lips under Jared’s blown-out gaze. He looks lovely when he is covered in sweat. Freckles stand out even more like this, hair a mess because Jared’s fingers were here, ears so red, so so red, and Jared believes in the fact that the tip of Mr. Ackles’ dick must be the exact same color.

It’s still throbbing, right there, right underneath Jared.

He grinds down and back, and Mr. Ackles snaps, “Jared!” all confused and helpless and so so darling, most darling Mr. Ackles with his hands on Jared’s hips to maybe stop him _but they don’t_.

Jared watches and drags down, back, forwards, up, maybe a full six times and Mr. Ackles is saying it again, says, “Jared,” like a death wish, like a love song, and his eyes and mouth are wide in shock when he comes apart, too, right under Jared’s eyes.

Mr. Ackles trembles all the way through it without making a sound. Jared feels him tick with every spurt, feels those balls contracting, releasing, feels the added wetness. It’s all seeping together down there, both their sweat and come. Jared’s poor heart stumbles at the thought.

It’s Jared who slowly starts kissing again but it’s Mr. Ackles who cups the back of his head and doesn’t apologize. He will do so later, of course, but for the next blissed fifteen minutes, the world is warm and salty-slick and complete.

~

“I’m sorry, Jared, but Mrs. Brownstein is right.”

Jared’s Converse sneakers are pink and his eyes are on said pink. He thinks how he’s even wearing boxer shorts underneath today, ones his mom had picked out for him and which have some ugly car print on them, and that it’s not fair. He isn’t even trying hard here.

Maybe Mr. Ackles has his teacher eyes on him, maybe he doesn’t. Jared doesn’t want to know.

“You know we have a dress code at school, don’t you? Everyone has to follow the rules.”

The worst probably is that Mr. Ackles’ voice is somewhere in between his babygirlkittenprincessjared softness and his high school strictness. Jared is pretty sure Mr. Ackles will get him at least one entire new outfit as a humble, knee-scraping apology for this, but now they’re in the principal’s office together with said principal and two other teachers and Mr. Ackles has to treat Jared like any other student he has never seen outside of school (or kissed on the mouth, or bought sundresses for).

Maybe he’ll listen to _you_ , Jensen? He seems so _fond_ of you.

“So, please.” Mr. Ackles sounds genuinely worried for Jared’s wellbeing. Such an easy lie to pass the tightness in his throat for the fear of having a queer student instead of being found out to be part of the problem that is Jared Tristan. “Please wear appropriate clothing in the future.”

None of the teachers had been willing to explain to Jared if it was the color of his shirt (bright baby pink, Barbie slogan in white; Mom got it for him last weekend and he cried in her arms for it) or the tightness of his jeans (he has grown again but the fly still closes and Marsha has yet to demand them back) that broke the code. Maybe both. Maybe everything. Maybe he wouldn’t be here if his sneakers were red.

Jared says, “Okay, sir,” and the unanimous relief among the adults makes him feel sick.

Still hope for this one, they think.

Good thing we brought proper and moral Mr. Ackles for help, they think.

In a few years, Jared thinks, you all will know. And then you’ll be sorry.

~

It takes a good twenty minutes of silent torture for Mr. Ackles to get his nerves together to crane his neck and ask, “How much longer?”

“Hm. I dunno.” Jared sighs, lets his leg swing, rolls his pen between his fingers. (He let Mr. Ackles paint them a sparkly lavender after dressing up. Sparkles are hard to scrape off; only worth the hassle if Jared can wear it for more than a few hours – and they have until tomorrow, eleven PM, before Jared’s imaginary playdate is over.) “It’s more complicated than I thought.”

It’s Friday. Good girls (and boys) do their homework before heading into the weekend. Jared, certainly, _is_ good.

In Jared’s peripheral vision, Mr. Ackles faces the TV again. He smells like heaven today and got a haircut a few days back; this here is not easy for Jared either.

But oh. Seeing Mr. Ackles squirm is so worth it.

The pleated skirt Jared is wearing today is almost a little too short by now, but neither of them really seems to mind. White knee-socks with kitten feet pattern printed on the soles; pink jelly beans. White microfiber g-string with a tiny bow sewn on in front, bulging under Jared’s always-hard cock (a steady state when he’s around Mr. Ackles) underneath the skirt, a high-collared white blouse over the matching sleek-white bralette. Jared picked the baby pink lip gloss with the shimmer, a slim delicate bracelet with tiny crystals and tinier cherubim figurines, and he bound a thin ribbon under the collar even though he’s wearing his “kitten” choker underneath, too.

Kitten is doing her homework and Mr. Ackles cannot help with math, so he has to wait for her even though he was good and finished his work before she came over. He had brewed tea, had bought cookies and grapes. _Vitamins, babygirl_. He’s a good man.

Jared sighs every once in a while after scratching down another few digits, definitely louder than his actual unwillingness. Tosses his hair. Plays with a grape. Slumps down on the table just to groan, pick himself back up. Arched back and pouted lips. Maybe he has watched too many male gaze loaded movies about little girls. (Maybe he loves watching them a little too much, imagining himself in the role the director hadn’t planned for a pubescent boy.)

There is a clock sitting on Mr. Ackles’ fridge, so Jared flutters when Mr. Ackles gets up after forty and then some minutes. Wriggles in his seat. Sighs again; chin on hand. Waits.

Mr. Ackles takes his time and the TV is still running, ready for him to return to it. Jared tries hard not to let a smile slip, because he has a feeling Mr. Ackles hasn’t been interested in watching anything but Jared ever since he came through the door today.

Slowly, Mr. Ackles is unwinding. Gets more daring with Jared. Allows himself to listen when he is told that _it’s okay, yes, please_. Even though they haven’t made each other come again since that thing on the sofa three weeks back, things have changed. An invisible barrier has fallen. Mr. Ackles has many of those.

Jared’s thighs press together while Mr. Ackles circles the kitchen table to eventually stand behind him. Jared keeps looking at his homework and thus keeps his play intact. It’s Mr. Ackles now who lets him stew but fortunately breaks rather quickly, steps closer, puts one glorious hand on Jared’s shoulder and bends down to look over it.

So close to his ear, Jared hears, “Hm,” like Mr. Ackles is checking what he’s written, if it’s good, if it’s correct. God, that hand. Jared leans into the touch, lets Mr. Ackles’ beard graze his cheek.

“Miss, I do believe you should’ve been done with this a long while ago.”

Jared’s breath catches in his chest; then, warmth spills down his breastbone, sends his insides clenching.

Oh. God.

“Homework time is over.” Mr. Ackles says that in his teacher voice, just like Jared splutters in his kitten voice, “But I’m not _done_ yet, sir!”

“Too bad.”

Mr. Ackles gets a feather-grip on Jared’s notebook to tug it away, but Jared grabs it with intention, gathers it back. “No,” he whimpers, flushes some more when the pull on his homework intensifies. “Sir, please! I, I need to…”

“Are you contradicting me, miss?”

“N-no, I just…”

“If you don’t listen to your teacher, I’m afraid I’ll have to sign you up for detention.”

Jared whispers, “D-discipline.”

Mr. Ackles whispers back just as quietly, “What?”

Jared’s knees rub together. Stage whispers. “ _You’ll have to discipline me if I don’t listen_.”

Short silence, tense and burning-hot, and for a second Jared thinks he’s gone too far, that this is too fucked-up, too close to reality for Mr. Ackles, but then his notebook gets ripped out of his hands and Mr. Ackles decisively puts it down on the table, out of Jared’s reach.

“You, miss,” and Mr. Ackles rumbles that right against Jared’s temple while his hand sneaks over shoulder, collarbone, tugs on Jared’s improvised tie, “are not a very good girl, aren’t you?”

Jared melts in his seat and into the warmth of Mr. Ackles’ hand.

He closes his eyes and his next sigh sounds so much different from his earlier ones.

“In fact, I get the feeling you’re a very _bad_ girl.”

“Uh-uh.” Jared shakes his head.

“That’s not a word.”

“I’m a _good_ girl,” promises Jared.

“Really?”

Warmest fingers pry Jared’s tie loose, just a little, just enough to tug the blouse’s collar aside to flash the baby pink choker underneath. The letters are silver and bold; a great match to the thick fake leather.

“So you think a good girl would wear something like this?”

Jared swallows as one of Mr. Ackles thick fingers slips into the tight space between collar and throat. “It’s… I only wear it underneath my uniform, sir. I’m not breaking any dress codes.”

A mean curve ball, maybe, but Mr. Ackles can take it. And yeah, only a small, tight chuckle that could as well have been in-role, too. “It’s in-ap-pro-pri-ate,” clicks Mr. Ackles. The finger withdraws. “Vulgar, even. What’s it say, miss?”

“’Kitten’,” trembles Jared.

“And whose kitten are you then?”

“Yours,” chokes Jared, and when nothing comes shooting right back at that, he feels like adding, “All yours, sir.”

Mr. Ackles straightens himself then, stands tall. Puts his other hand on Jared’s other shoulder, engulfing him. Jared can feel the dampness of nervous-sweaty palms through his thin thin blouse.

They’re edging on “too far” right now; obviously. Jared knows this because it feels so so unbelievable good. Mr. Ackles feels so raw behind him. As if he would fall over is he wasn’t steadying himself on Jared’s shoulders.

“All mine, hm?” Slowly.

“Yes.” No hesitation.

“Does my kitten do what I say?”

“Everything.”

A heartbeat (into all the wrong directions).

“Stand up.”

Jared almost trips over his own feet as he scrambles to a stand too fast. The chair makes a violent sound over the floor and Jared didn’t shove it away far enough for Mr. Ackles to step behind him, but Mr. Ackles takes care of that himself.

Jared has his hands flat on the table and stares straight ahead, holds his breath.

Mr. Ackles right behind him touches not more than two of his beautiful fingertips into the dip of Jared’s lower back and says, “Bend over. Chest to the table.”

Jared does. One cheek smushed against the table, he stutters for breath with the slip of two fingers down his way too exposed back of thighs. Almost the curve of his ass. God, this skirt _is_ way too short. In this position, anyways.

“No,” comes the correction. “Face _down_. Hands next to your shoulders.” Jared complies. “Good.”

Two hands now, running not down this time but _up_. Jared arches his back harder, presents, pants against the tabletop.

“Always so lewd,” murmurs kitten’s teacher. His hands are still caressing her behind. “Wearing clothes like that. Batting your lashes at me during class.” A step closer. God, Jared can feel him pressing his hard-on against the curve where leg chubs up to butt. “A good girl wouldn’t do that. Teasing me like that.”

“I’m sorry…”

Grind of cock against ass. Jared pushes back but Mr. Ackles holds him still by his hips. “So you’re admitting it?”

“Yes.” Fuck, Jared is going to come against the table. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ackles. I’m sorry.”

“So you’re not a good girl?”

“No, I ain’t, sir.”

“So you’re a _bad_ girl?”

Mr. Ackles is still wearing the same slacks he wore to school today. Jared doesn’t have English on Fridays, but his girls do, and he lets them make reports. How Mr. Ackles wore his hair today. If he chose a tie, what tie he chose. If he wore a jacket. If his nipples shone through his button-down again.

“Yes,” sobs Jared.

“Then tell me, kitten – what should I do with a bad girl like you?”

Nothing happens for a terrible few seconds after Jared splutters, “Spank me, sir!” but then Mr. Ackles’ palm flies and hits.

The clap is so loud, so pretty, and Jared yelps for both all that and that delicate sting. Again hesitation and Jared wants to cry because he makes Mr. Ackles do something smutty like this but oh god _he makes Mr. Ackles do something smutty like this_ , and he wants more, more, wriggles his ass in Mr. Ackles’ one-handed grip and whines for please, please, sir.

Mr. Ackles isn’t hitting hard and stops after a handful but it is enough to turn Jared into a twitching mess. The hand that held Jared in place joins the one that hit him and soothes what feels like slightly irritated (maybe pink) skin in firm, tight circles. It tugs on Jared’s ass cheeks and pulls them apart completely unintended and completely irregular underneath his tiny skirt, and said skirt is constantly shifting, too, and Jared’s mouth hangs open. He humps back into Mr. Ackles’ hands and his hole clenches – unclenches – clenches – against the friction of his g-string.

The only difference between a girl and him now is that the wet spot on his underwear would be in a slightly different place.

Mr. Ackles breaks character to ask, “Does it hurt?” and Jared doesn’t feel like using big boy words yet, hums his decline instead which Mr. Ackles accepts happily. “God,” Mr. Ackles groans, “you’re unbelievable.”

“Sorry, sir.” Mr. Ackles can’t see him smiling.

“Oh, don’t fuckin’ taunt me,” and there he is again, Mr. Ackles’ strangely not so unfamiliar alter ego, tugging on the collar of Jared’s blouse to loosen it even more, plucks away the ribbon. “Hands behind your back.”

“ _Oh_ ,” moans Jared. A gush of precome in his panties later, he has a cramp in his bicep from moving his arms too fast. He’d say “please, please, oh god fuck yes please,” but the girl he is in his mind wouldn’t be that lewd. He thinks that if he was a girl, he’d be so much purer. He’d be the best girl for his Mr. Ackles, virgin-good and marriage-pure and waiting, patiently. How he wants to be and manages to act like most of the time. Hard, though, when you read too many of the wrong pink-shaded blogs, watch too many videos, have too many lonely-pillowed thoughts.

He gets his wrists tied behind the small of his back with his shiny translucent baby pink ribbon and if Mr. Ackles as much as brushed his cock now, he would come like a fountain.

Mr. Ackles mutters, “Say stop if it’s too much,” but Jared swallows two mouthfuls of spit and pleadings and just replies with, “Okay.”

Mr. Ackles guides him to the chair they pushed away earlier and seats Jared on it. The backrest is slid between his bound arms and his back so he would have to get up to move. Mr. Ackles crouches down between his legs though, pulls them wide open and rests his hands on top of them. Jared would rather lose a limb than get away from here.

Lick of lips, eyes raking up Jared’s body until their eyes meet. Mr. Ackles looks flushed and Jared just now has a chance to notice the glasses. Mr. Ackles must have put them on while he was watching TV. Jared hadn’t looked at him since then. When he puts them on during class, Jared is not the only one flinching in his seat.

“You’re a very – bad – girl.”

Mr. Ackles tries hard to play his role. Everything sounds like porn from his mouth, sure, but this is insane. Jared hopes he can see his nipples pointing up under his blouse. Definitely can see his cock twitching under his skirt. Fuck. _Fuck_.

“Not only the collar. You’re wearing make-up, too. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“I don’t think you are,” nips kitten’s teacher. “Why do you do this, huh? Are you trying to flirt with me? You think it impresses me to see you break rules for me?”

“I just wanna be pretty for you,” mutters Jared, and somehow, suddenly, this is so much less of a play pretend.

Maybe Mr. Ackles notices that, too. His eyes flash for a second, at least. “ _’Pretty’_ ,” he repeats. Brings a thumb and forefinger to flick at Jared’s collar. “Others see you as well. You ever consider that? What other people think of you?” Fingers brush down over the bump of Jared’s collarbone, then hesitate before undoing the first button of the blouse. “Not wearing a bra half of the time. Don’t think I haven’t seen your classmates staring. You love attention. Are you even wearing one right now? I can’t tell.”

Jared’s chest is heaving and Mr. Ackles doesn’t stop unbuttoning his blouse when the front of his little bra is already visible, no; thumbs them all open even past Jared’s belly button. Jared’s eyes are wet and his lip caught between his teeth. He feels so bare, so on display, but he can’t close his legs with Mr. Ackles taking residence in between them.

Both of those two perfect hands slip underneath the cotton of Jared’s blouse instead of brushing it away, and they cup his tits.

Mr. Ackles looks like he is about to faint or dive into Jared’s mouth tongue-first, but he just stays there all lidded eyes and blown mouth, and he chokes, “Showed ‘em to anyone but me, kitten?”

Jared _has_ to shake his head along with his, “No.”

“Mine, right?” The most gentle squeeze. “All mine.”

Jared wants to answer his natural, “Yes,” but it gets lost in the sweet friction of his bra being pulled up his chest, dragging across his nipples and then letting them spring free. Mr. Ackles shifts the blouse then by lifting his hands, a little sneak peek, a glimmer of freshly uncovered skin, and Mr. Ackles trembles as if he had a real pair of teenage tits waiting for him.

Jared’s knees dig into Mr. Ackles’ sides in instinct when Mr. Ackles starts feeling him up, all smooth-giant-warm hands on his milky nothings, budding nipples sliding in between webbings of fingers, getting squeezed there. Jared gasps, can’t move much.

“Shhh,” whispers Mr. Ackles because he knows about Jared’s impatience. This is a comeback for earlier. For Jared’s teasing.

Jared wants to shed his skin by the time fingers aren’t enough anymore and Mr. Ackles’ mouth latches on to the left side first, right side later. He can only stare down his body, feel Mr. Ackles working him into a frenzy, see his pretty spit shining all thickly on his pink-sucked tits. It’s both torture and redemption when it stops, when Mr. Ackles finally sits back on his haunches, absently kneads the left one between thumb and forefinger. Watches his spit slicking the process. Jared only has eyes for his teacher.

Eyes up to Jared; wide and green. “I bet you’re so fuckin’ wet right now, princess.”

Jared’s eyes squeeze shut because he won’t cream himself from nothing but eye contact, no. He nods, though.

“Gonna let me see?”

More nodding, a needy whimper.

Hands on top of Jared’s already wide legs, Mr. Ackles hums, “Spread your legs, kitten,” and Jared does so until it hurts.

Would fucking split himself in two for Mr. Ackles.

He knows he’s trembling but still can’t look, feels Mr. Ackles lifting his skirt over his belly to uncover his- “ _Fuck_.” Yeah, that. “Look at you. Fuck, baby. All soaked, jus’ from lettin’ me play with your little tits. _Fuck_.”

A thumb finds the corner of Jared’s mouth. When it pushes in, Jared purses his lips to suck on it (like any good girl would). Mr. Ackles groans at that (like a dying animal, as if it _hurts_ ) and that makes Jared brave enough to blink through his lashes, catch Mr. Ackles staring between his legs as if Jared had a miracle down there instead of boy junk wedged into girl panties. Mr. Ackles sees him looking though and those eyes dart up, caught, and maybe Jared notices the one shade of darker pink on that face.

Mr. Ackles isn’t smiling. This is all very serious. “Do you shave yourself here?”

Jared nods with the thumb skidding over his curling tongue.

“Since when?”

Mr. Ackles pumps his thumb between Jared’s lips a few times before letting him speak and keeps it resting in that corner it invaded it from, ready to dive back in once Jared has said enough.

“Since you got the high-cut briefs for me,” Jared confesses. “The lacy ones with…”

The thumb pushes back in and Jared tastes his lip gloss.

They both know that “since the high-cut briefs” means three months. Three months of Jared expecting to be seen naked and wanting to look his girliest, bestest.

Mr. Ackles has storms in his eyes and fire between his teeth. “Gonna make me lose my mind one of these days.”

Jared French-kisses the knuckle of Mr. Ackles’ thumb and burns all openly, all wetly.

“So goddamn pretty like this.” Whisper-groan, secret and doll dress sweet, thumb fucking, free hand tickling and broad up into the crease where Jared’s leg meets his hip, smallest nip of fingertip against almost-stubble (he always does it right before he leaves for Mr. Ackles’), and Jared’s hips _buck_ at that.

It’s involuntary and almost a magic trick – Jared’s cock twitching so hard that it peels itself out from underneath the barely hanging on hem of his string, springing right out, nowhere to hide.

Jared seizes, hard, but Mr. Ackles keeps his legs spread, watches with fucking fascination as Jared’s dick cries a fat droplet in time with his eyes.

Eyes up to Jared. “Baby,” whispers Mr. Ackles.

The thumb slows down but doesn’t stop. Jared wants to die and hide and for this to never stop, ever.

“Baby, you’re a princess all over.”

Jared sobs (all too much, too much, he’s gonna blow while bawling his eyes out) when the thumb pulls out despite him sucking it hard, then blinks irritated and maybe slightly offended because Mr. Ackles smears his lip gloss around almost frantically, makes a mess of Jared’s chin.

Then, that thumb smears the baby pink glitter across his nipple, and Jared swears he won’t survive it.

“Should be sparkling all over,” decides Mr. Ackles all quietly, almost to himself, and Jared can’t really hear it because his ears are ringing so loud, because the sound of his own breathing and the rub of Mr. Ackles’ thumb wetting itself on his lips anew are making him absolutely dizzy.

Mr. Ackles glosses his other nipple as well, and it doesn’t make sense when he goes back at Jared’s mouth afterwards, straight to it like it’s on a mission, and the gloss feels so sticky and _wrong_ on his skin, cools and tingles and his dick is _throbbing_ at this point.

It _does_ end up making sense though when Mr. Ackles’ thumb, all sparkly and pale-pinked, rubs right over the slit of his dick.

It’s like a train coming right towards you. You can see yourself already getting hit, flailing, sailing through the air.

And so Jared gapes for a long, long moment, before his body catches up with reality and shoots right up against Mr. Ackles’ thumb.

It’s still smearing, still painting him.

Jared thrashes on top of the poor chair and Mr. Ackles is right there to let him hook his legs over his shoulders.

The heels of Jared’s feet dig into Mr. Ackles back and Jared doesn’t think he’s saying something, keeps quiet through the waves that feel like blasts, like electricity being shot right through his balls. Mr. Ackles presses them forehead to forehead now and Jared can feel him panting, hard, through his mouth and right into Jared’s, can fucking _taste_ Mr. Ackles on his tongue while he covers his own heaving belly with his release. And Mr. Ackles’. And Mr. Ackles’ hand.

Unlike if this was a strange alternate universe where everything was perfect, Mr. Ackles does not lick Jared’s come off his fingers; he gets a washcloth instead. He doesn’t let Jared get him off either. Jared is pretty sure he does it himself not more than five minutes later, under the shower, before it’s time to start preparing dinner (“Are you hungry? I’m _starving_.“).

But he kisses all lip gloss from Jared’s lips.

And he won’t apologize for anything.


End file.
